Kidnapped ik-10

by Jan Burke

  Kidnapped

  ( Irene Kelly - 10 )

  Jan Burke

  Synopsis:

  When Irene Kelly’s articles profiling missing children run in the Las Piernas Express, she anticipates the renewed public interest and the deluge of phone tips and remembered clues; she even anticipates the renewed pain of the anguished parents. What she doesn’t expect is that the articles will set off a murderous chain reaction — and put her life in peril.

  Perhaps one of the more tragic disappearances in recent Las Piernas history was that of Jenny Fletcher, just shy of her fourth birthday. The body of Jenny’s father, Richard, a graphic artist, was found bludgeoned in his studio; hours later Jenny's stepbrother Mason was apprehended with the murder weapon and bloody clothing in his car. But little Jenny was never found. As the years pass, everyone assumes Jenny is dead. Everyone except her brother Caleb, who not only believes Jenny survived but steadfastly believes in Mason’s innocence.

  Caleb, now a graduate student studying with forensic anthropologist Ben Sheridan, works on cases for the Las Piernas Police Department. When bones are discovered at the old Sheffield estate just days after the missing-children articles appear, Caleb finds himself drawn into a case that threatens to bring personal tragedies back to the present. He has a fierce ally in reporter Irene Kelly, who will stop at nothing to solve the mysteries of his father’s murder and his sister’s disappearance.

  KIDNAPPED

  Jan Burke

  The tenth book in the Irene Kelly series

  Copyright © 2006 by Jan Burke

  For the Incomparable

  Marysue Rucci

  ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Tuesday, May 9

  8:07 A.M.

  FLETCHER GRAPHIC DESIGN

  LAS PIERNAS

  CLEO SMITH firmly believed that neatness counted, especially if you were going to get away with murder. Which was why she now stood completely naked, save for a pair of plastic booties and a pair of thin rubber gloves, in the office of the man she had just killed.

  She calmly gathered the clothing she had worn to do the job and placed it in a plastic bag, along with the trophy used as the weapon. The trophy was a heavy, curving metal shape, about ten inches in height. An award her victim, Richard Fletcher, had won for excellence as a graphic artist.

  A second bag contained the hypodermic needle she had used in the first few moments of the proceedings. To this bag she added the gloves.

  She placed both bags inside a large canvas duffel. This she took with her as she went back to the studio area, admiring but not touching the works in progress in the large, open room. She walked quickly past the windows (blinds closed at this hour) and into the bathroom off the back of the studio.

  Richard had designed everything about this office and studio, including the full bathroom and changing area. He had needed a place where he could clean up and change clothes before meeting clients or heading home for the day. This worked admirably for her purposes as well. Taking her own soap, shampoo, and towels from the duffel, she stepped into the shower. She removed the booties, placing them in the plastic bag that held the gloves and needle. She turned on the water, unfazed by the initial coldness of it, and began to cleanse off the inevitable biological debris that resulted from the chosen method of murder. Soon the water warmed. She leaned into the hard spray.

  She did not fear interruption. Richard had been a free spirit in many ways, but his days followed a set, personally defined routine. His first three hours of the workday never included any appointments, and he was known for not answering the phone during those hours. She had placed a portable locking and alarm device on the front door, just in case. She had altered it slightly — if someone should try to get past it, it wouldn’t screech the kind of high-decibel alarm that would draw unwanted attention. Instead, a remote, much quieter but audible alarm would sound in her nearby bag.

  She scrubbed her long, lean, and muscular body. She prided herself on her peak physical condition. Her light brown hair was no more than half an inch long anywhere on her head; she had completely depilated the rest of her body. Her breasts were small — she would readily agree that she was flat-chested, had anyone had the nerve to say so to her face. Her nails were cut very short.

  She was proud of the fact that she could easily imitate a male gait or stance, and with the slightest bit of disguise could fool anyone who was not a trained and attentive observer that she was male. With almost equal ease, she could signal femininity. These were just a few of her gifts.

  She contemplated the murder, trying to identify any imperfections. One of the highest priorities had been that the victim feel no pain.

  He had certainly not felt the blows that killed him. The last sensation he had known while conscious was most likely bewilderment. Perhaps a little stinging at the time of the injection, but there had been so little time for Richard to react before the drug took effect, he did not register much more than surprise. And maybe a bit of dismay.

  Cleo Smith frowned and silently conceded that there were moments of anxiety — he did try so hard to move toward the door and did manage to say, “Jenny.” Cleo had tried to calm him, but of course, at that point, he mistrusted her. Belatedly mistrusted her.

  Still, he was unable to give more than minor resistance as Cleo steered him back to the desk. A second wave of worry came over Richard just after that, but the drug took full effect — he passed out cold while trying to stand up. It was Richard’s final act of courtesy — there would be no need to reposition him.

  So. Anxiety, to some degree, but not pain.

  Cleo had made sure the blows demolished the point of injection. There was some chance that a toxicology report would be ordered, but even if the tests included the substance she used (highly unlikely), the result would not lead anyone back to her. The clothing she had worn during the murder did not belong to her.

  Cleo stepped out of the shower and dried herself, put on a pair of men’s socks, then used a new set of towels — never before used by her — to wipe down every surface of the shower and anything she might have touched in here.

  She dressed in a new set of male clothes. The towels went into the plastic bag with the needle, gloves, and booties. A few necessary moments were spent examining the scene, ensuring that only the appropriate evidence remained.

  She checked the time. Another two hours before discovery would most likely take place. One should never, she knew, rely on everything going smoothly.

  She retrieved her portable lock and alarm. One last look back at Richard. She said a silent good-bye and pulled the door shut. She locked it, using a key she had taken from Richard’s key ring. The clients would not expect to find the door locked at the time of their appointment. If they became angry rather than worried, and stormed off thinking Richard had forgotten their appointment, she would gain a little more lead time.

  Eventually, though, the body would be discovered.

  No time to linger. She had a busy day ahead of her.

  Besides, she wanted a cigarette. She was not, in general, a smoker, but murder always made her want to light up.

  She was perfectly aware of what a psychiatrist might have to say about that.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tuesday, May 9

  9:05 A.M.

  LAS PIERNAS

  “EXCUSE me, Dad,” Giles Fletcher said, and stood to take a cell phone call.

  “That’s incredibly rude,” his sister Edith muttered.

  Graydon Fletcher merely sat back in his soft, overstuffed armchair in the sunniest of the many rooms of his mansion, and considered the two adult, middle-aged children who were in his company now.

  Through the French doors just opposite the chair, he could see one of the most beautif
ul gardens on his estate. Giles said, “Just a moment,” to his caller and stepped outside. He closed the door behind him, looking tense as he resumed his conversation.

  Edith was the designer and keeper of the garden just beyond where Giles paced. Designer, Graydon thought, was not the right word. Originator, perhaps. The garden had been her idea.

  A wild hodgepodge of plants, it was the children’s garden. Over the years of its existence, any of Graydon’s children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren were free to plant a flower or a vegetable or any other plant they might choose, with very few restrictions to inhibit them: They could not harm another child’s plant, nor could they plant anything illegal or anything that might easily prove poisonous to the children and pets of the Fletcher family.

  The children’s garden flourished in colorful chaos, a chaos that required more work of Edith than the estate’s more orderly gardens and greenhouse, and yet she never complained. To Graydon’s eye, plants that would have been viewed as rather unattractive on their own somehow added to the beauty of the whole. Edith, who neither had children of her own nor had adopted, gave the same loving care to each plant in this garden.

  Graydon found her company restful.

  Far more restful than that of his eldest son, Giles. Unusual to see him so agitated. Giles, so bright, so driven, capable of achieving anything to which he set his mind. Graydon knew that the family meant everything to Giles, but watching him now, he worried that Giles’s devotion was placing him under a strain.

  “If he didn’t look so nervous, I’d swear he arranged that call to get out of his argument with you,” Edith said, setting aside a gardening magazine she had been pretending to read during that disagreement.

  Graydon smiled. “I think Giles knows escape would not be so easy. He doesn’t get his way in everything, you know.”

  She looked as if she might respond, then went back to her magazine.

  Neither of them were his biological children. None of the twenty-one children whom he had embraced as his adopted sons and daughters, nor any of the uncountable others who had lived here over the years as foster children or on a less official basis, were his biological children.

  Both Graydon and his late wife, Emma, had been the only children of wealthy parents. After Graydon and Emma married, in keeping with ideals they shared on the subjects of education and child welfare, they established an innovative private school — Fletcher Academy. The school was widely held to be the best private school in the area and ranked among the top five in the state. The Fletchers always made room within it for promising students who could not have otherwise afforded such an excellent education.

  When Emma and Graydon Fletcher discovered they could not have children of their own, they became foster parents. Those children who stayed with them without the prospect of finding another home, they adopted. Others came to them less formally — children, Emma said, who had houses to live in, but not homes. Graydon and Emma showered them with affection and attention, listened to their worries and calmed their fears, taught them to care for one another when no one else might care for them. They challenged each child to discover his or her own talents and kept their lively family busy with projects and activities.

  Children abandoned or labeled hopeless became achievers who learned the benefits of cooperating with others. No one could blame Graydon and Emma for their pride in them. Given the lost children of Las Piernas, they had returned successful leaders, business owners, and professionals. The Fletchers used their wealth and growing family connections to help these children find places in the world, to pursue dreams, to be of use.

  The Fletchers had been amply repaid for their generosity, Graydon believed. While a few of his children had chosen to be independent of the family and settled elsewhere, most were in close contact with him and lived nearby. Every house on this street was now owned by one of his children. They took care of one another, helped one another with problems, invested in one another’s businesses. They generously donated to the academy, adopted children in addition to their own, took in foster children. Graydon smiled, thinking of how pleased his late wife would have been to see their dreams being carried forward.

  After Emma died, he found he wanted to spend more time with his grandchildren and less with paperwork. He handed over the day-to-day administration of many of his business and charitable interests to his children. Which was why Giles was here now. Giles was in charge of Fletcher Academy.

  Giles finished his call and continued to stand outside, looking at the garden. When he turned to come back in, he was frowning.

  “Do sit down, Giles,” Graydon said as he reentered the room. “I hope you haven’t received any bad news?”

  “No, no… just business.” He sat on the edge of a nearby chair. “It’s a busy day.”

  “You’ve done great things for the academy. I hope you know how much I appreciate that.”

  Giles seemed to relax a little. He looked at Graydon earnestly. “I am going to do so much more. As you know, in the last five years, the Fletcher Day School has helped us to identify preschoolers who are especially promising. That means that more and more students of the academy are going to be the best and brightest in the area, and when others see how well its graduates are doing, we’ll get the best students not just in Las Piernas or California, but in the nation.”

  “Is that your goal?”

  “That’s one goal. Don’t you see, Dad? We already have graduates who have become politicians, architects, CEOs, lawyers, doctors, researchers—”

  “Gardeners,” Edith said dryly, earning a scowl from him.

  Graydon smiled. “Yes, and construction workers, waitresses, plumbers—”

  “Yes, yes. But more important—”

  “My dear Giles, if you think a plumber is not important, I can only pray the pipes in that old house you’ve bought are in better shape than I imagine they are. What have I taught you?”

  “That everyone is important, all jobs are important. And I agree. All I’m saying is that I want to help children whose potential would allow them to flourish if they were given the kind of education they can receive in our school.”

  “Rich kids,” Edith said.

  “Not at all!” Giles said, clearly stung. “That’s not the issue. The issue is the intelligence of the child, the child’s potential.” He paused. “And being poor isn’t a virtue. Some parents don’t deserve to have children. My own didn’t. My birth parents, I mean.”

  Graydon stayed silent. Giles rarely talked about the years before he came to live with Emma and Graydon. Graydon hadn’t been sure that Giles remembered his childhood before he was brought to this house, forty years ago — a thin, bruised, frightened six-year-old.

  “I think quite often,” Giles said, “of what my life would have been like if you hadn’t taken me in.” He paused, and seemed to shake off his mood. “You gave a fortune to your children, all to help them become better members of this society than they might have been on their own. But instead of going broke, the family is wealthier today than it was when you and Mom began. Because you offered those children a way to make the most of their potential, and they gave back to the family.”

  “What concerns me, Giles,” Graydon said, “is that we are only catering to the best and the brightest these days. The late bloomer, the child of average ability, the child who needs extra help — those children seem no longer to be welcomed at the academy.”

  “Dad, as great as our resources are, they aren’t unlimited. We have to focus.” He glanced at his watch.

  “I promise I won’t keep you much longer,” Graydon said. “And since you seem to have the support of other members of the advisory board — Dexter, Nelson, Roy, and the others — I’m not going to interfere with how you run the school. I simply wanted to ensure that you understood my position.”

  Giles stood. “You know I respect you, Dad. I promise I’ll try to work something out that will make you happy.”

  “Oh, I’m happ
y with you, son.” He also stood, and hugged Giles.

  Giles was almost to the door when Graydon said, “Oh, one other thing…”

  Giles looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “About Caleb, Richard’s son.”

  He saw Giles’s back stiffen, and the color drain from his face. “Yes?”

  “I understand that one reason Richard stopped having contact with us a few years ago is that he felt pressure to send Caleb to the academy.”

  Giles shot a quick, angry look at Edith, then said, “I gave up trying to talk Richard into that a long time ago. Caleb is in a public high school now, where I’m sure he’s getting an inadequate education, but that was Richard’s choice to make.”

  “Edith,” Graydon said, “why would Giles think you told me something about that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I always figured Richard simply got tired of Nelson mooning over his wife.”

  Giles said, “I don’t have time for an old maid’s nasty remarks,” and left.

  Edith smiled and went back to her magazine.

  CHAPTER 3

  Tuesday, May 9

  1:25 P.M.

  LAS PIERNAS

  CALEB was in his chemistry class, believing at that moment that his biggest problem was how to keep his friends from guessing that he was getting an A in this subject. And every other class he was taking. Thankfully, his brother Mason let Caleb hang out with him just enough to keep Caleb’s friends in awe. Mason was an artist and a musician in a popular local band, and five years older than Caleb. Caleb never let on that Mason was as strict and protective of him as his parents were.

  He saw Mrs. Thorndike’s gaze fall upon him, and knew she would call on him and that he’d either have to answer or feign ignorance, when a skinny redheaded girl came into the room.